Valentino Will Die Read online

  Much of the promenade deck had been converted into one large open casino. Oliver had learned that Cornero had done his best to recreate a replica of the Casino in Monte Carlo. Since Oliver had never been to Monte Carlo, he wouldn’t know the difference, but he had to admit that Cornero’s main casino was impressive. It stretched nearly the length of the ship and was beautifully decorated in a mock Belle Epoque style, with blue and gold furniture and walls, a shell-motif skylight, faux marble Corinthian columns, and a huge crystal chandelier. Roulette wheels, blackjack tables, craps, baccarat, slots, any game a risk-taker could desire was available. An usher was posted at the head of a red-carpeted marble staircase that led down to a lower deck, where the private gaming rooms were located. Since Thursday nights were reserved for invitation-only high-stakes gaming, most of the gamblers who had come out on Oliver’s ferry headed directly for the stairs.

  Oliver’s plan tonight was simply to make himself known to Cornero as a wealthy visitor from Washington. He didn’t expect to find out much about Cornero’s business arrangements in one night, so he had talked Dix into letting him spend her money in the casino for three or four Thursday nights in a row, if necessary. Oliver was not a bad gambler for an amateur and hoped to come out on the winning side. In fact, if he could win big, that would draw Cornero’s attention and perhaps earn him an introduction. As a bonus, Dix had told him that he could keep any money he won above the stake she had provided him. As the glittering crowd trooped across the polished oak floors toward the stairs, they passed a mahogany counter for changing out chips with a gilded sign on the side that read Bank. Underneath the sign, a flyer announced that the Bank was also a currency exchange for Mexican and Canadian visitors. Cornero’s bootlegging business must be doing very well, or his backers were very rich, for him to be able to afford all this.

  With Juan behind him, Oliver descended the staircase to the lower deck to find that they had stepped into an elegant restaurant with a long buffet. Doors off the restaurant space led into the private salons, each with a sign naming the game and the minimum buy-in to join.

  “Impressive,” Oliver said to the usher. “What’s on the deck below?”

  “That’s a private area, sir. The kitchen, crew quarters, offices. May I answer any question you have about the salons, sir?”

  Oliver’s best game was poker, though he usually did all right at 21. “Is there a Texas Hold’em game going on anywhere tonight?”

  “There is, sir, in the Salle Blanche. The ante is five hundred dollars. I’d be glad to see if there is an open seat at the table tonight.”

  The White Room. “Salle Blanche! Sounds lucky to me. Yes, if a seat is available, I’d like to sit in on that game, thank you.”

  The usher trotted off, leaving Oliver and Juan in the restaurant, where a waiter trotted up and offered them both drinks. Oliver slid his hand into the pocket of his trousers and fingered the roll of bills Dix had given him, wondering who the other high rollers in the salon would be. Was he going to rub shoulders with the stars? Where did Bianca end up? He had lost sight of her and Fairbanks after they disembarked the ferry.

  “What do you want me to do while you’re blowing Dix’s money?” Juan said, jolting Oliver out of his reverie.

  It hadn’t occurred to Oliver that his “servant” probably wouldn’t be allowed into the private salon with him. “I don’t know, Juan. Let’s see if I’m going to be able to get in on this game first.”

  The usher returned before Juan had a chance to respond. “I’m sorry, sir, but all the seats at the tables are taken until at least eleven, when one of the regular players has indicated he must leave. If you’d like, I will see that the open seat is held for you, and if another player drops out before that, I’d be glad to notify you.”

  Oliver slipped a five-dollar bill into the usher’s hand. “I’d be grateful.”

  The fin disappeared into the usher’s pocket. “In the meantime, is there another game you’d like to try?”

  Oliver considered for a moment. “Perhaps I’ll go back upstairs and try my hand at the roulette table for an hour or so, then come back down for a late supper while I wait for the seat to open up. Will the restaurant be open all night?”

  “Certainly, sir. An excellent plan. I will look for you in the restaurant at eleven.”

  The usher’s attention was caught by another passenger frantically waving from the passageway, and he scurried away.

  Oliver beckoned for Juan to follow him as he headed for the stairs. Instead of going up to the promenade deck, he stepped over the chain that blocked off the stairwell and went down.

  “Let’s have a look around down here while we have the chance, Juan,” he said over his shoulder.

  Oliver could feel the big man’s breath on the back of his neck as he snarled, “Quit calling me Juan.”

  “What, you don’t like Juan?”

  “That ain’t my name.”

  They had reached the lower deck, and Oliver paused to get his bearings. “If it ain’t Juan, what is it?”

  “None of your business.”

  Oliver began walking down the passageway, examining the doors. “I’ve got to call you something.”

  “Call me ‘hey, you’.”

  “You don’t have a name?”

  “Not as far as you’re concerned.”

  Oliver was enjoying this exchange more than he ought. “Well, it’s going to look peculiar to all these highfalutin types if I don’t know my valet’s name.”

  The big man huffed in annoyance. “Well, shit. You might as well call me Juan, then.”

  Oliver tried not to laugh. There were some wits under all that muscle. “Okay, then,” he said, all business again. “You check the doors on that side of the deck, I’ll check these. Holler if you find an empty office.”

  “What do I tell any mugs I run across?”

  “Act drunk and head for the stairs. Tell them you’re looking for the men’s room. It probably happens all the time.”

  “Ladder,” Juan said.

  “What?”

  “Stairs are called a ladder on a ship. The floor’s the deck and the walls are bulkheads.”

  “Who the hell cares? What, were you in the Navy or something?”

  “I was, during the war.”

  “Well, let’s just speak English tonight, shall we?” Oliver had just moved past a room with a sign on it that said Purser. “We can exchange biographies when and if we get out of this in one piece. Shut up and look.”

  Juan paused outside a closed door on the other side of the passageway. “Hey, here’s Cornero’s office.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Juan shot him an ironic look and gestured at the nameplate on the door.

  ANTHONY CORNERO

  ~ Bianca Finally Meets Miles Donahue in the Salle Blanche ~

  Bianca and her escort, Douglas Fairbanks, descended to the lower deck and followed their usher to the Salle Blanche. Ironic, since Blanche was her real name. They passed through the restaurant and down the long corridor to a large cabin at the end, where they met Charlie Chaplin in the passageway. He was friend and neighbor to both Doug and Bianca, though knowing his penchant for very young women, Bianca usually maintained a healthy distance between them. Since she was with Doug this evening and in the midst of a crowd, she let Charlie give her a kiss on the cheek. The two men hooked arms with her, and they entered the Salle Blanche as a unit. All eyes in the room turned toward them, three of the most famous people in the world.

  The Salle Blanche was a long, luxurious hall that had been carved out of at least three regular-sized cabins. A bar that wound around two sides of the room was decorated with colorful mosaic tiles depicting a classical scene of Bacchus riding on a donkey, with a bunch of grapes in one hand and an overflowing wine chalice in the other. A glass door led to an outside terrace with two or three small tables, wh
ere tuxedoed men were just sitting down for intimate card games. Bianca hadn’t seen an outside balcony from the ferry. This hall must be on the seaward side of the ship, she thought.

  The Salle Blanche was well named, for aside from the artwork on the bar, the entire room was white—the walls, the tiled floor, the carved woodwork of the ceiling, the sparkling crystal and painted metalwork of the chandelier and the lamps. Even the leather on the chairs and the felt top of the large gaming table in the center of the room were white. As Charlie made his way over to take his seat at the table, Doug leaned over to whisper in Bianca’s ear. “See the guy next to Chaplin in the double-breasted dinner jacket? That’s Donahue.”

  Bianca examined her quarry. Donahue was a well put-together fellow, surprisingly young, she thought, to be a millionaire and the father of a grown woman.

  “Evening, gents,” Doug said, all affability. “I’ve agreed to introduce my friend Bianca to the joys of Texas Hold’em. She would like to observe the action for a hand or two, if you gentlemen don’t object.”

  Bianca could tell by the smitten looks around the table that no one was going to object. Doug proceeded with the introductions. Eight people had settled in around the table, some of whom were familiar to her—producer Walter Wanger, screenwriter Ben Glazer, Harry Chandler, publisher of the Los Angeles Times, Chaplin—and some who were not, a retailer whose last name was Mann, a Long Beach councilman whose name she didn’t get, a guy named Beale whose line of work she didn’t get, Doug, and Miles Donahue the oilman. When his turn came, Donahue took her hand and she looked him in the eye, sizing him up.

  A white-jacketed waiter came in to take their drink orders as the men seated themselves around the table and cut the cards to see who would deal first. Bianca took a seat behind Doug, next to the wall, and watched the interplay with interest. Cards were considered the work of the devil back in her little eastern Oklahoma hometown, so she hadn’t been exposed to the art until she came to California and could hardly call herself an expert. It didn’t take long to see who was rash and who was cautious, who knew what he was doing and who did not. Who was a gracious winner or a sore loser. Donahue turned out to be the latter. This struck Bianca as odd, since he won more than he lost, and even when he did lose, he could well afford it.

  There was a lot of good-natured banter around the table, which Donahue cheerfully joined whenever he won a hand.

  After one particularly lucrative win, Mr. Beale teased Donahue about the fairness of the house winning all his money. Donahue took the jibe with forced good humor. “Believe me, Beale, I have nothing to do with the running of this tub.”

  The opening was too fortuitous to pass up. “Are you part-owner of the Monaco, Mr. Donahue?”

  He turned in his chair to look at her. “I am, Miss LaBelle, though I am not involved in any way with the day-to-day workings of the casino. I am the most silent of silent partners.”

  “From the looks of things,” Chaplin said, “your investment is going to pay off in spades.”

  “Let’s hope so. In the meantime, what say you gentlemen let me try to win some of my money back? Deal, Mr. Chaplin.”

  Bianca wanted to ask Donahue if he was aware that Valentino had also been an investor, but the moment passed. The game resumed, and after an hour, the waiter reappeared to refill drinks between hands, and the players decided to take a short break. Since business could not be ignored for long, Wanger the producer cornered Doug to discuss a project, and Glazer, the screenwriter, made a beeline for Bianca to pitch a script before she could make her way around the table to Donahue.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, struggling to be gracious. “I’ll look at it. Send it to my agent.” Glazer may have wanted to say something else, but Bianca didn’t give him a chance. She slipped out of his grip and sidled up to Donahue, who had lit a cigar and was puffing contentedly, still at the table, counting his chips.

  “Mr. Donahue,” she said. “Are you by any chance related to a young lady named Jenny Donahue?”

  He winced as though she had slapped him. “How do you know Jenny? Do you know where she is?”

  Bianca put on a surprised expression. “I don’t know her. I was at the United Artists lot last week for a meeting with George Fitzmaurice. I mentioned to him that I’m looking for a private secretary, and he told me that I’d be well advised to offer the job to his former assistant Jenny Donahue. He told me that she was the best assistant he had ever had but had recently resigned from the studio, and he didn’t know her forwarding address. I thought maybe if you knew her you could put me in touch with her.”

  Donahue stood up. He looked stricken. “Jenny’s my daughter. We had a falling-out and now she refuses to talk to me. Or see me. So, no, I don’t know where she is. If you find her, tell her to get in touch with her old man.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to bring up such a painful subject. You can be sure that if I ever do meet her, I will let her know I spoke to you. I had heard of Jenny before, you know. My late friend Rudy Valentino knew her and spoke well of her.”

  Donahue stiffened, and the fire that flared in his eyes caused Bianca to step back. She had suspected she might be poking the bear. She had been counting on the company to see that she didn’t get eaten.

  “Don’t mention that damned wop’s name to me,” he said between clinched teeth.

  Bianca put on her coolest face. “I beg your pardon?”

  Donahue took himself in hand and drew in a breath. “Forgive my language, Miss LaBelle. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there is something I need to do before the next hand.” He stalked out of the cabin. Doug came up behind her and grasped her arm.

  “What was that all about?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out. He certainly didn’t make any bones about hating Rudy.”

  “You’d better let me talk to him, my girl. He’s more likely to spill his guts to another guy than he is to a girl he doesn’t know.”

  ~ Breaking and Entering ~

  As Oliver and Juan eyed the nameplate on Cornero’s office door, a man in a white waiter’s jacket clattered down the steps (ladder) at the end of the passageway. Oliver began belting out “Sweet Adeline,” and Juan joined in as they staggered down the passageway with their arms over each other’s shoulders, away from Cornero’s office and toward the stairs. (Oliver could not make himself think of them as a “ladder.”) The waiter shot them a disdainful glance as he passed but otherwise didn’t ask them what the hell they were doing there. Oliver was right. This sort of thing happened all the time. The staff knew that the high rollers were to be indulged, even when they were boors and idiots. They carried on until the waiter disappeared into the kitchen, then returned to Cornero’s office door and tried the handle. Locked. Oliver bent over to examine the locking mechanism in the lever that served as a doorknob.

  “I’d force it for you, but bulkhead doors weigh a ton.” Juan kept his voice low.

  Oliver shook his head. Brute strength would certainly be ineffective against the steel door. He pulled a set of lock picks out of his pocket and knelt down. “Give me the high sign if you see anybody coming.”

  Juan leaned against the bulkhead with his arms crossed and tried to look nonchalant. Oliver had the door open in two seconds flat. Juan was impressed. “Hey, you’re pretty good at that. Do a lot of breaking and entering, do you?”

  “Lockpicking is the first thing they teach you at private eye school.” Oliver slipped into the dark office, gesturing for Juan to follow. What little light there was in the cabin came from two portholes looking out over a black expanse of sea and a slightly less black, star-spangled sky. Oliver could make out a large square shape in the middle of the floor. He assumed it was a desk. He fumbled his way across the cabin and felt around over the desktop until he hit upon a lamp and switched it on. The door had a tight seal that would keep both water and light from leaking out into the corridor, and Oliver didn’t car
e if a passing ship or a whale caught sight of them through the portholes. Cornero’s office was utilitarian, containing nothing more than the oak desk, two plain wooden chairs, and a row of wooden filing cabinets beside the door. Oliver sat down and eyed the desktop. A blotter, a pen holder, a picture of a woman and a young boy. “Family man,” Oliver muttered.

  “What are we looking for?” Juan said.

  Oliver placed both hands on top of the desk. “We don’t have time to do a thorough look, so I’m just going to get the lay of the land right now. If I see anything promising, I’ll figure out a way to come back when nobody is around and have a leisurely gander. You go back out in the hall…”

  “Corridor.”

  “…corridor and keep an eye out. I’ll just take a minute to go through this desk and see what’s what.”

  Juan did as he was told, and for a few minutes, the only sound in the cabin came from rustling paper and squeaking drawers as Oliver searched.

  He found three long black ledgers in one of the side drawers and pulled them out for a quick examination. One was a manifest and payroll entries written in a neat, spidery hand. The second was a checkbook. The third, a fatter ledger, had several sections: inventory, accounts receivable, accounts payable, debit, and credit. Oliver flipped through quickly, wishing for all the world he had a miniature camera, or that he had the balls to just steal the thing. Since he had neither, he would report to Dix what he had seen tonight and let her decide what his next move would be. He expected she would be most interested in the ledgers. After all, it was a second set of books which had brought down her lieutenant, Mr. Ruhl. Careful bookkeeping was as important to criminals as it was to honest businessmen, but it was often a lot more dangerous if the wrong person got hold of the books.